Elegy
by ttchaku
Summary: He was put away so he wouldn’t hurt anyone, but now he’s the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.
1. The Decision

**Elegy**

**Prologue: A Decision**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

"_**I**__ took his power, Nathan. I can't control it. I can't do anything._"

"_I'm not leaving you, Peter. There's another way to end this and you know it._"

"_I can't let you die._"

"_And I can't let everyone else. You saved the cheerleader, so we could save the world."_

"_I love you, Nathan._"

_"I love you too." _

Nathan Petrelli walked towards his radioactive brother ignoring the heat emulating off him to tenderly brush his hair out of his face and pull him close like he did when he was a teen and Nathan an aspiring DA. And there was something he never expected to do – in all his months of campaigning he had never covered this – never figured out what to say when pressed with the question, "So was it really your brother who blew up most of New York City last Friday?"

Nathan slipped his hand into his jacket pocket as Peter practically collapsed into him, hugging him tightly and tucking his head into the crook of Nathan's shoulder. Nathan – never one for emotional displays – let him. He figured that Peter needed the comfort. Hell, he needed the comfort. Nathan rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, an itch forming between his shoulder blades as he forced himself not to shrug Peter off and scoff at him.

The problem wasn't that Peter was burning him – he was. Currently Nathan's pressed suit was crisping right onto his body. No, it was all the stares of the people behind him. His daughter – daughter, for fuck's sake; he had never expected that and he could _fly_ – was expecting him to solve this, to take care of this without hurting Peter and…and he had a way but it would probably, no definitely hurt Peter.

And of course there was all those other people behind him. He saw Nikki behind him with her husband and who he presumed was her son along with another little girl and god, why were there children here of all places? Then there was Mohinder, his curly head bent over a bullet stricken man. He had an edgy, determined look on his face that just screamed "press conference in the future" Even the man who had tried to kidnap him out of his bed in the hotel in Vegas was here, leaning up against a pillar, obviously hurt.

These people were counting on him to save the day. And Peter too, especially Peter.

Nathan quelled the hysterical laugh that threatened to fight its way out of his throat and make itself known to all with the help of years of army training. Could he really do this- do what he planned? Nathan focused his attention of Peter again, well his mop of hair really and breathed in his scent. It was a mixture fear, desperation, that clean scent that nurses seemed carry along; and underneath that all, was a certain musky scent that Nathan recognized as purely Peter.

Nathan fingered the large shard of glass in his pocket. It was still bloody and red from the inside of Peter's head, it's edges jagged and Nathan swore lightly as he cut himself on it, drawing a thin line of blood on his forefinger. Nathan would reflect later, while staring at the scab in the darkness of his room that it was symbolic – the final mixing of blood between brothers.

Peter was a stranger to Nathan for most of his life, but then again, Nathan was a stranger in his own home for most of his life. Nathan had gone from boarding school to college to the army to an apartment on the Upper East Side. The perfect little soldier; daddy's little boy. There was little time for little brothers in that picture.

Nathan had learned of Peter's conception six months into the fact during a phone call home from boarding school. Nathan had first held him four months after his birth during Christmas vacation – even then, Peter was so contrary that he had to be born in September, a whole three weeks late and five days after Nathan had left for school in France.

From then on, well into college, it was a couple pictures a year and then after Peter finally turned three and began to make sense of word structure, short, stilted, yes-no conversations after which Nathan's mother would come on the phone and apologize – Peter was going through a faze; he was shy; he'd grow out of it when he saw Nathan again, because Peter just hero-worshiped his older brother – but Nathan knew that Peter really just didn't remember him. There were too little memories to draw from and the pool grew smaller every day.

Nathan came home for an extended stay a couple of months after his first leave from the army. It was after his tour abroad and entering his childhood home was as much a war zone as the streets of Rwanda with an increasing reclusive father; a cold mother; a colder house; and a stranger peering at him from between his knees and too long bangs.

Peter was fifteen the first time Nathan ever paid any real attention to him. He was gangly, all-arms-and-legs, a crooked smile, all dreams, no logic – nothing special really, but the first time Nathan saw him, he fell in love all over again.

It was like Nathan had been sleepwalking through life and Peter had finally woken him up.

Stifling back more memories, Nathan concentrated on the glass in his hand. He slowly began to draw it out of his pocket, keeping it close to his side.

"Nathan," Peter moaned, lifting his head to look his brother in the eye. "Do something." His fingers were clutching Nathan's shoulder, burning through the fabric and his eyes were frantic. His breathing quickened and Nathan gripped the glass tightly.

There was no time.

Nathan brought the glass up swiftly and ground it up the back of Peter's head, registering Claire muted scream in the background, but paying far more attention to his brother as he choked, hands weakly fluttering down Nathan's shirt. Slowly the unholy light faded from Peter's body and then Nathan had the distinctly unpleasant duty of watching the light that made Peter Peter fade from his eyes. And was that a look of gratitude in Peter's expression as he slumped forward, lips almost but not quite moving?

No, no, his brother was not trying to thank him for killing him. Nathan just couldn't think that way or he'd break, or maybe, maybe that was the way he _needed _to think. After all, this would be easier if he could think that this was what Peter wanted, wouldn't it?

Nathan adjusted his body so that Peter's limp body flopped into the crook of Nathan's shoulder and he was able to lift his little brother up and turn around to face the people in the square.

Nathan took a deep breath, steadying himself. He could do this. "We need to talk."

**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued...


	2. Sleeping Beauty

**Elegy**

**Sleeping Beauty**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

**M**onty walked through the old artist's studio cautiously. It had been easy to get the codes to the alarm system from his older brother, but there could be something that Simon had forgotten to mention, or more likely, something that he didn't know about, though his father told Simon everything, trusted him like he didn't Monty.

Though, Monty thought with a silent laugh, considering where Monty was now, what he was doing, maybe his father had a good reason not to trust him.

Noting the floor sensor exactly where Simon had described it, Monty took a deep breath and imagined his bones weightless and hollow, paying close attention to how every molecule would feel light enough to leave the ground. Slowly he felt his feet lift off the floor. Flying was different for each Petrelli man and intensely private, no matter that they had unlocked the secret to the mutant genome years ago and had figured out that Nathan Petrelli's sons could fly because their father had passed on the trait to them while their mother hadn't passed on any special ability. Therefore, the two abilities couldn't morph and create something completely different like it had with Micah or Ayaan. Of course, sometimes anomalies still occurred, but in theory, the Petrelli men had something connecting them deeper any familial bond.

Pity they weren't closer.

Monty walked forward. He had always been more of a levitator as apposed to his father who soared and his brother who was a diver. Monty stopped when he reached the door at the end of the room and crouched next to the handle. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a small device, no bigger than his thumb and roughly the same shape.

Micah had made it for him when he had told him that he was going and that no one could come with him. Right now he could imagine him, sitting with Ayaan and Molly, Shanti playing in the background and Molly giving minute by minute updates of where he was. Micah was a bloody genius with computers and by extension all things mechanical. He could talk to them, coax them to do his bidding, tease them into what he wanted. He had created the device in his hand. The computer chip, a maze of circuits and god knows what else, was smaller than his finger nail and would disarm almost anything.

Including brass handles that were armed with a simple security block.

Monty pressed the device against the door and grinned when he heard a slight clicking noise. Swinging the door open, Monty stepped – still on air, but it was stepping nonetheless; Monty just had several more different planes to do it from – into the room and calmly flicked on the lights.

There he was, resting blithely in the center of the room, surrounded by an anti-air lock – Sleeping Beauty.

Listing over, Monty allowed himself to circle the body several times before stopping at his head. He wondered what the boy, well man really, would think of the codename given to him. Sleeping Beauty was a little- well…Monty scrutinized the face closely. He couldn't be called beautiful really, he was too angular for that, all planes and lines and thinned out from the years in containment, but he was handsome in that full-blooded Italian way. Maybe Aunty Claire had given him the nickname; it would be her style. Even after marriage and kids, Monty suspected that she was still a little in love with him.

Then again, as his father told it, no one ever fell out of love with this particular man and Monty still had his own suspicions about his father so he wasn't even going to go there.

Floating to the edge of the anti-air chamber, Monty punched in a sequence of numbers – his birthday actually and moved back as the chamber opened with a hiss. Monty pushed it open the rest of the way and laid the body to air for the first time in twenty years. It hadn't aged a bit in the time since. His face still held the same boyish look that it had had while playing with him all those years ago.

Monty thought it might have been the anti-air lock that kept him looking so…_fresh_, but it could have something to do with the regenerating cells he had borrowed from Aunt Claire all those years ago. Ayaan would probably have theories; even at ten, Monty knew that the boy was way ahead of Monty's twenty-seven years. All Monty had on him was time.

Monty leaned forward, lifting the man's head from his pillow and for the first time noticed how much care had gone into this set-up. He was lying on the softest bed possible with silk sheets – though why a dead body would need them… - and a down pillow. His body had been arranged with the utmost care, legs lying straight and perfectly in line with the rest of his body. Monty could even see the ruffles in the sheets where someone had moved his arms from folded on his chest to lying at his sides. Someone had obviously thought he looked too _dead _that way.

Now that he looking, the ruffles looked way too recent. Inspecting closer, Monty could see the faint outlines of arms, as if someone had recently cradled the limp body to his chest and Monty looked away quickly, blinking back a rush of angry tears. He shouldn't be looking at something so intimate really, even if it had already occurred and it was only in his imagination.

Turning his attention back to the body, Monty turned its head and caught a glimpse of the glass ensconced in the back of his head. Shifting so that he was leaning on the bed, Monty fought down his queasiness and gripped the glass with one hand and the back of the body's head with another.

Then he pulled.

The glass pulled out smooth, though Monty did have to stifle a gag. He wasn't sure what he had been suspecting? Mushiness, perhaps? Nothing happened at first and Monty was left holding a bloody piece of glass in one hand, a still dead body in the other and a stupid look. He felt a brief flare of panic – if this didn't work, then he didn't care what Dad said; they were _screwed _-but then the body underneath him drew a slow breath, so soft and silent that Monty could barely believe it. Then he drew another and another, faint color returning to his face.

Then he opened his eyes.

Monty darted back in shock, using his flight to speed himself over to a shadowy corner. He hadn't been expecting that. No one had told him expect that. He really should have been too weak to open his eyes, much less start twitching his fingers and legs as he was now. He let out a soft moan and the twitching continued. Atrophy, Monty observed clinically, he'd get his strength back, but it'd take time.

Slowly, Monty ventured out of his corner and floated over to the man. His eyes darted over to Monty, eyes wide and scared. His mouth moved wordlessly. Vocal chords too, Monty thought, he'd have to relearn to use them. Monty hesitated over the body, even though the man was growing more and more agitated. What should he tell him? Not too much; it'd scare him more, but enough, enough to ensure his cooperation, otherwise Sylar would- Monty shook the thought from his head and placed his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Peter Petrelli," Monty started, unsure of how to continue and then cringing at the corniness of what he was about to say: "I'm here to save you."

**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued…


	3. There's Always a Reason

**Elegy**

**There's Always a Reason **

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

**P**eter flexed his hand, seeing it tighten and curl into a fist with only the slightest of tremors. It had been six weeks since Monty had taken him out of Isaac's studio. He had brought Peter to a hotel in the Bronx where Peter had spent the time recuperating. It had been frustrating to say the least. Monty had had to carry him outside to the waiting taxi. Peter couldn't have stopped him or called out for help if he tried. Thank God, Monty seemed to be one of the good guys.

Peter had wanted to sleep forever after finally making it to the hotel, his neck not even able to support the weight of his own head, but Monty had cajoled him into a reclining chair and bustled around him – giving him IV fluids; tucking a blanket around his worn hips when he began shivering; and placed warm moist towels on his arms and legs. Slowly afterwards, Peter drifted off.

Ever since that first night, Peter had been slowly building up his strength again with resistive exercises and therapeutic bathes. However, he still had no idea how he had ended up in Isaac's apartment. The last thing Peter remembered was being in Kirby Plaza with Nathan desperate about not blowing up. Then he was looking up at a man floating above his head telling him that he had come to rescue him.

He supposed that he should come to anticipate, even expect these things by now.

Peter sighed and got out of his chair – still wobbling slightly; damn it - and walked over to the window. They were in the penthouse on the top floor and the view was beautiful. New York actually seemed to be cleaner than before, though Peter never would have mentioned the thought out loud. He swallowed back a lump in his throat. He missed Nathan; he missed his home; he missed his life as crazy as it had become. He would give anything to see Claire's sweet smile, or Hiro's goofy grin. Hell, he wouldn't mind hearing Noah Bennett's cold calculating voice once more.

Peter leaned his hand against the glass, the rest of his body following. Every molecule was yearning to leave, to fly away. His powers hadn't returned yet, but when questioned, Monty said it was only matter of time. Monty hadn't said much else though. He refused to answer any question Peter asked him. Instead he just smiled and told Peter that it would be a lot of information to absorb and that he needed to concentrate on regaining his strength first.

Peter thudded his fist lightly against the thick glass and to his surprise the glass shattered underneath his hand. Peter flailed forward, falling into the air. He twisted frantically as he fell, trying to will himself to fly, but whatever ability had suddenly appeared, had disappeared just as quickly taking everything else with it. Speeding downwards, Peter eyed the street below. It was filled with people and Peter's stomach twisted; people were going to die if he hit the ground. Please, no; not again.

Suddenly a blur swooped underneath him.

_Nathan, _Peter thought.

The blur – Nathan – looped his arms under his head and legs and flew him back up to the broken window. As the wind rushed through his hair, Peter could hear the shouts of the people below him and he felt an instant of panic – Nathan didn't want anyone to know, but Peter soon realized that they were probably too far up for anyone to make out their faces.

The man landed on the ledge, carefully setting Peter down and Peter whirled around, almost slipping on the shattered glass to see him. It wasn't Nathan. Standing before him in a dark business suit was a thirty-something dark haired man. He…he had Nathan face. His darkly disapproving face and outgoing stance, but-

"Peter!" Behind him, Monty ran into the room, holding a cloth. "What happened?"

"Who the hell is this, Monty!" The man suddenly barked out, pushing back Peter to stand in front of the younger man.

"I-" Monty suddenly looked conflicted. "It's-"

"Oh don't bother lying, Monty!" The man hissed, "You brought him back, didn't you? You realize that you might cause the apocalypse!"

"It's not like that. He's not like what people think." Monty yelled back. Then he walked past him towards Peter. "What happened?" Monty asked him. "Are you alright?" he whispered softly as if trying not to surprise a frightened animal.

"Oh he's fine." The man snapped, "He broke the window and fell out. He broke a five inch glass window with his hand. He's real safe."

Peter backed away from the two men as the two men began arguing in earnest. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, calming himself. Then he opened his eyes. "Simon, Monty, stop it, both of you." he said calmly.

Both men turned back towards him. "How did you-" Monty started.

"I'm your uncle." Peter said tiredly. "I helped raise you. There's no way I'd forget the way you looked; the way you spoke; or," Peter smirked, "or the way you two fight."

Both men looked at him, Simon irately and Monty contritely. "Peter," Monty began, "I'm sorry I didn't-"

"How long have I been gone?" Peter interrupted, leaning against the wall. "Decades, probably? Well," he suddenly snapped, "how long?"

Simon was looking at him cautiously as if he might blow any minute and well, who knew, he might. "It's been about twenty years since you were put away."

"Put away?" Peter questioned.

"To sleep." Monty piped up. "You can't really die, but keeping an object in your brain that separates the brain stem keeps you in a dead-like state." Monty hesitated, "No one was sure if you'd wake up after this long, but I had to try. It…it wasn't right."

Suddenly, Peter's legs gave out beneath him and he sank to the ground. "Twenty years?" he breathed, "I've been gone twenty years?" Peter shook his head in confusion. "Why?"

Simon looked at him. "You weren't safe. You almost blew up New York City, Unc- Peter. Father - Nathan decided it would be best." Simon answered, ignoring Monty's hissed, "Shut up, you ass."

"Nathan?" Peter said weakly. Part of him was howling with rage he couldn't quite express, old habits keeping his mouth shut in front of his young nephews. And yet, his nephews were older than him now and how could Nathan do this to him. Weren't they family, no closer than that – they were brothers. Couldn't Nathan have…have done something else - given him a second chance, he wanted to scream.

But another part, the part that had always thought that Nathan was always right; the part that really didn't trust himself, that truly thought Nathan superior to him in every way was secretly glad that Nathan had locked him away. He had taken the decision out of his hand however grossly incompetent the decision made was. Even now, a part of Peter wished that he could be put back to sleep; he couldn't hurt anyone that way and there was no worrying about controlling his powers.

Nevertheless, that was a very small part of him. Every other particle was screaming out for life.

"So…" Peter hesitated. "What now?"

Simon frowned. "We put you back." And then with a glare at Monty, "And hope that no one finds out."

Peter gaped at the man – his nephew and then made an aborted move back towards the open window before his legs gave out again. "No." he said from his position on the ground. "You're not putting me back."

"Yes, we-"

"Simon, seriously, shut up." Monty nudged his brother and lilted his head towards Peter's hands and upon seeing them, Simon fell silent but frowned deeper. Peter looked at his hands and saw that in his anger he had clutched the carpet and was pulling up tufts of it. It seemed this super strength thing was really on-off. He couldn't get up, but he could pull out carpeting.

Lovely.

"We're not putting you back." Monty repeated firmly. Then he added embarrassedly. "We need you."

"You need me?" Peter questioned.

"Yeah well, Sylar-" Monty started.

"Sylar!" Peter exploded, "He's dead. Hiro killed him!"

Simon shook his head. "We never found the body, but when we went public with our powers no one wanted to let the non-specials know that there was a serial killer on the loose. We already lock up those with powers that are too dangerous and the world is still on the brink of war."

"You're locking up people with abilities?" Peter asked, sickened.

Simon huffed. "Not everyone. Monty and I are still around, aren't we? Only the dangerous ones; the ones who can't control their powers."

"Like me." Peter muttered darkly.

"Exactly like you." Simon shot back. "We had a kid that asphyxiated his entire class. Killed them all."

Monty shook his head and muttered under his breath. "Only you could be happy about sending an eight year away to be locked up and studied."

"Oh Monty grow up," Simon snapped, rounding on him. "You might be frittering away your life nursing, but some of us are where the action is and let me tell you that it isn't looking good. The world is taking sides, Monty. With the specials or against them. A world war is coming and if the States fall, then that's it. We'll lose. We'll be persecuted everywhere. There's already a contingent rallying to get Dad thrown out of office and our rights are getting smaller and smaller. They find out about someone with Peter's abilities or god forbid, Sylar then we're through."

"But that's just it," Monty said in a smaller voice, "Peter's the only one who can take on Sylar. If he beats Sylar then Dad can continue his work in peace and the world won't turn."

"Oh really," Simon said doubtfully, looking at Peter.

"Shanti dreamed it." Monty insisted, "She's too young to understand it, but she said that the brain man would be both our savior and our demise. His life must be our demise and his death should be our salvation. And she said that Peter-" Monty stopped embarrassedly. "Sorry," he said turning to Peter, "Shanti said that I shouldn't tell you this yet."

Peter closed his eyes again, head spinning with all the new information. "Well, one thing's for sure. I can't go back." At Simon annoyed snort, Peter added, "I'll keep a low profile, but I…I…" Peter struggled to word what he felt and then finished: "I just can't let the world go to crap. I'm a hero."

Simon rolled his eyes sullenly but didn't disagree and Monty nodded eagerly. "Thank you, Peter, thank you so much. You…might have to back under afterwards, but-"

"Monty," Simon interrupted dryly, "You do not tell someone that you're going to lock them away after they've finished doing you a favor."

"I'm not going to let him go into this with his eyes closed. He needs to know exactly what he's getting into. He could die or get-"

"He can't die!" Simon snapped, exasperated.

"Boys," Peter interrupted. "It's okay. Really." he added at their disbelieving looks. "Whatever's best." Peter carefully tucked away his anger at being a tool, a device; at being locked away for decades; and at Nathan and everyone else. He'd need it later. And besides anger was dangerous. "So," he continued, deceptively lightheartedly, "Are we going to see Nathan?"

"God no." Simon muttered, "He'd flay us both alive." Simon looked at him appraisingly. "You and Monty will go to Mohinder's. He runs a center for those with abilities. You'll need some training before you take on Sylar. He's got twenty years on you now and besides, you may be able to pick up some information on where he is at the center." Then he turned back towards Monty. "I'll throw Dad off the trail, but he's going to find out soon enough, after he arrives at the center.

Monty ran his hand though his hair and sighed. "Yeah thanks."

Peter stared at the two men and then looked away as tears burned at his eyes. The look that Monty sent Simon…they were brothers – close at that. Anyone could tell from the intimacy and love in that one glance. The love of a younger brother to the older one. Nathan and he could never have that again. Not only were they years more apart in age, but after what Nathan had done – killing him would have been better, instead of just keeping him as some back-up weapon. What _was_ Nathan planning on doing with him? Would he have brought him out when the world went to shit and war broke out? Would he have had to fight like some robot? Nathan wasn't above using his family for political gain, Peter remembered bitterly.

"Where is he?" Peter asked suddenly, "Where's Nathan?"

Simon shrugged, obviously forgetting that Peter had missed out on the past twenty years. "Where else? The White House. He's been the president for the past six years."

**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued…


	4. New Old Faces

**Elegy **

**New Old Faces**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

**P**eter brushed his wind-swept hair out of his eyes and looked up the grassy slope at where Mohinder's "center" stood. It was more a manor than anything else – sprawling and full of activity. Children were playing at the edges of the gardens surrounding the blue trimmed house and a couple of teenagers hung around the old moss-covered fountain a way off in the middle of the circular driveway. To the right, near a veranda, were several adults ranging to Peter's age to senor citizens. They were sitting around sipping tea in the shade offered to them by yawning umbrellas.

The manor had a certain welcoming ambiance, all the doors were flung open, either because of the dry heat of a Texas day or to literally greet those who sought shelter at its trimmed doors.

Peter wiped the sweat off his forehead and followed Monty as he walked across the large green lawn towards the fountain. As they approached, a tall gangly teenager with dark skin and warm chocolate eyes started towards them. When he reached them, he quickly took Peter's arm and hurried him off to the side, Monty following bemusedly.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, looking furtively over his shoulder. "Don't you know that someone could spot you!"

Monty laughed and pulled the boy to a stop. "Relax Ayaan, Simon found us and told us to come here. Peter needs to train anyway."

Peter looked at the boy. He couldn't have been longer than fifteen or sixteen, but he looked far more serious. He had tangled, curly hair, barely touching the nape of his neck and wiry body distinctly reminded Peter of someone. Then he pushed up his glasses with his index finger and frowned and suddenly Peter knew. "Mohinder!" he gasped.

Ayaan looked at him oddly and then nodded slowly. "He's my father." he said slowly as if he didn't want to admit it and then even slower: "I guess you're Peter, my great-uncle."

Peter looked at him and then: "Mohinder married Claire? How is that…when-" Peter trailed off helplessly, staring at the boy.

He was still looking at the boy, gobsmacked when a young Indian girl in plaited pigtails came running up to the trio. "Ay bhaaii! Ay bhaaii!" She stopped when she noticed the other two people standing next to her brother. "Who are they?" she asked, her pointer finger in her mouth.

Ayaan grimaced and pulled her finger to her side and then lifted the small child into his arms. Not answering her question, he started towards the house. "Come," he called over his shoulder, "Mother and Father will want to see you. Not to mention Molly and Micah and everyone else who used to know you." Then he added slyly, "Molly, especially, will be particularly happy to see you, Monty."

Peter glanced at Monty whose face had turned slightly red. He scoffed and kicked at the ground, scuffing it a little as he walked. Peter was suddenly struck with the juvenile urge to nudge Monty and tease him until the tips of his ears grew red like they did when he was just a child. And then he came to himself. He couldn't do that. He was Monty's uncle; he was older, more mature…at least he was supposed to be.

And, God, Claire was a mother.

Fuck, Peter thought as they entered the air conditioned house, just…fuck. Walking into the kitchen, Peter saw Claire. She hadn't really changed much; the years or perhaps her particular ability had been good to her. Her beautiful blonde hair hadn't become washed out or stringy, just a little longer. In fact, Peter realized as she turned around to greet her children with a warm smile, she hadn't really changed at all.

Maybe there were a few lines around her mouth and eyes, but they were smile lines and Peter couldn't begrudge her that. Maybe her hips were a little wider set and maybe her clothes had gone from head-cheerleader chic to stay at home mother wear-the-first-thing-that-doesn't-smell fame, but Peter found her all the more beautiful for it.

As she turned towards him, Peter smiled his funny little messed up grin and Claire gasped, dropping a plate back into sink. "Pete…" she whispered, disbelievingly, "Peter, is that you?"

Peter pushed his hands into his pockets, slouched and half shrugged. "…Yeah," he said after a moments thought, "It is."

Claire shrieked and threw himself into Peter's arms, her hands wrapping around his back and pulling him close. It was odd, Peter thought, that things could change so much and still stay essentially the same. Peter didn't hesitate as he hugged his thirty-seven year old niece closely.

Claire's shriek brought people running. The first to enter was Mohinder, his face lined and his hair graying. Life hadn't treated him as kindly as it had Claire, but he looked like a boy to Peter when he turned to his wife and Peter and smiled. "Peter Petrelli," he said softly, holding out a hand to shake. "I always knew we were going to meet again."

Peter shook the man's hand and suddenly found himself surrounded by a wide variety of people all of whom were introducing themselves to him as fast as possible. Of the ones he recognized, he saw Hiro, bald but with the wise look of someone who has seen more than most. He was holding a small girl close to his breast and smiling brightly at Peter. Peter saw him whisper into the girl's ear and surmised that he was telling the girl – probably his daughter (there seemed to have been a procreating influx after he'd left) – who he was. Next to Hiro was the blonde woman he'd met for an instant while fighting Sylar. If he remembered correctly, she had super strength…wait, were there supposed to be two of them? He only remembered one, but there were two twin blondes looking at him now.

Peter tore his eyes away from them and looked at the other people surrounding him. Names were being thrown at him left and right. Questions of remembrance were being shouted, but all Peter could manage to do was put names to faces. He remembered Micah, the small boy from the square. He was a man now and in the army from his fatigues. Next to him, canoodling with his nephew was a young woman named Molly, now a teacher from what the papers in her hand seemed to imply.

And then, thrusting in front of him was a young man named Teddy Parkman – and didn't he recognize that name? The cop, maybe? – yes, yes, Teddy was saying something about his father. People were telling him other things too. Stories of what had happened while he was gone – he managed to catch something about a gas implosion and a tank of fishes and he definitely needed to hear about that. Others were mentioning names – Susan Flanders, Sunil Vali, Mohammed Rafi, Marie Flie, and more that he couldn't catch.

Peter head spun and he reached out blindly and grabbed for the counter to his right, gripping it tightly. Was he supposed to know these people? Why were they even here? Monty had said that this was a center for those with abilities, perhaps they all lived here? Peter started to have trouble breathing. He gasped for air and bent over.

Oh God, he was gonna-

"You idiots!" A voice roared from right outside the kitchen, "Get the hell away from him, ye blundering fools!" Stomping into the kitchen came Claude, as sprightly as ever and following him, looking grimmer and older than ever before, was Mr. Bennet, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. "I mean it!" Claude continued to yell, flapping his hands to create space and slipping a chair underneath Peter's falling form. "You all want to get yourselves killed? The lot of you are all giving the lad here your powers and if he can't handle the absorption – BLAM!"

The noise died in shock as everyone turned to look at Peter who had gone pasty white and was clutching his heart while breathing heavily. Then the chattering started up again, this time in fear.

"Leave." Mr. Bennet's voice cut through the din, soft and deadly.

Everyone scampered.

After everyone left, even Monty (disappearing with Molly), Claude leaned next to Peter who was still slumped in his chair. "Breath lad," he said, rubbing Peter's back, "Breath."

Slowly, Peter got himself control. He felt the urges, sure. One part of him wanted sink right through the chair; while another was completely ready to evaporate into the air. Other parts were also clambering for attention. Peter found it best to concentrate on none in particular (when he did, his powers began to manifest themselves as evidenced by his hand slipping right through the kitchen counter) and instead on them all as a whole. Finally, he felt he might be able to do something without unleashing one of his newfound powers unintentionally. He could still feel them in the back of his neck, but they were dull and muted. Soon they would blend into the rest and he'd only be able to use them when he called for them.

Peter looked up and nodded. Claude pounded his back. "Good job, lad. Nice to know we all won't be dying anytime soon."

Peter snorted and wiped away the clammy sweat that had appeared on his brow. "Yeah," he muttered, "that was why I was put away right?"

The two older men glanced at each other. Then Claude sat next to him. "Listen lad," he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "Not everyone agreed with the idea. Bennet 'ere didn't. Neither did little Claire or some of the others. Hell, I wasn't even around back then. But, you got to understand, other people were in that square. They saw us – saw Nathan do what he did. They saw you almost blow up the entire city. Nathan was a congressman: he had to do something."

Peter nodded numbly; he was too overwhelmed to argue. Maybe it was all for the best anyway. Maybe he didn't to be put away. He was dangerous, wasn't he? But…but wasn't he even allowed a chance? He never even got a change to prove himself or change people's opinions about him.

"Need to be alone for a while, do ye lad?" Claude asked, correctly interpreting the miserable look on Peter's face.

Peter didn't answer, sinking into the chair. "Alright then," Claude said, swinging up. "We'll be out. Claire'll be setting tea soon."

Peter nodded as he and Bennet left, his eye never leaving the floor as the two older men made for the door, talking softly. Peter sat in silence as the kitchen grew quieter. Soon only subdued chatter and laughter could be heard from outside. The kitchen was light and airy, somehow bringing Peter down even more.

He just didn't understand; how could – then he knew. He had to talk to Nathan. His brother was the only one who could fix this. Whatever Nathan said, whatever he meant to do, it had to be right. Nathan would never have sentenced him to sleep without a valid reason. There had to be a good reason; Peter just needed to hear it from the horse's mouth itself.

Peter was still silently contemplating this when one of the blonde women from before came in to take a glass of water. As she tossed her longish hair behind her shoulder, Peter was again struck by the similarity between her and the woman he had met while fighting Sylar. Peter shifted slightly to get a better look at her.

He must have made some sort of noise though, because the woman jumped, dropping the glass and swearing slightly under her breath. Turning quickly, she started again when she saw Peter. "You should have told me you were still here," she scolded lightly. "I figured that you must have gone out with everyone else."

Peter shook his head and watched her carefully as she refilled her glass and came to sit next to him. She smiled at him and said, "So…how's it been going?"

The sheer absurdity of the question made Peter snort and then laugh loudly. As he finally trailed off, he noticed that she was still smiling slightly. "Sorry," he muttered, still chuckling, "It's just that- that-" Peter broke off into laughter again.

The blonde kept smiling. "I'm Jessica."

Peter grinned at her, more relaxed. "I've met you before…" he hesitated, "at the square." he finished awkwardly.

She frowned. "Actually, you met Nikki." she said.

"So I was right, there are two of you." Peter asserted.

Nikki shrugged, strands of blonde hair falling in her face. "Back then there weren't. We were twin sisters when we were children. Nikki had super strength and I could shift my souls into other people's bodies. My Dad used to beat me though and right before he…killed me, I shifted into Nikki's body and was unable to get out. I might have…gone a little crazy in there all alone and with no one to talk to but Nikki who thought she was going mad."

Peter smiled ruefully. "I'm kinda starting to know the feeling."

Jessica grinned back in commiseration. "Well, we finally met up with a person who could separate souls. I think you met her, Marie?"

Peter nodded. "Briefly. She was able to separate your souls?"

"Yeah. Bloody good thing too. Me and Nikki were just about to kill each other in there."

Peter snorted. "I could never live like that with Nathan. We'd have driven each other crazy within the first day."

Jessica eyed Peter keenly. "Well, probably, but you and Nathan were as different as could be, right?"

Peter wilted back into the chair, looking at his hands again. Noticing his response, Jessica impulsively grabbed his hand and dragged him up. "Come on, let's go have some tea." Jessica pulled him out of the kitchen and outside where Claire smiled at him and handed him a cup to drink, urging him to seat down.

Peter sat outside, sipping cooled tea and staring at the old-young faces surrounding him. Claire, all grown up and a mother. Hiro, his round face thinned and lined. Mohinder, hair and face no longer boyish with prudish spectacles on his face. Nikki and Jessica still beautiful, but aging roses, not fresh pansies. Micah, Molly, and Monty grown – older than him. Matt, graying at the temples but still looking proudly at his son – newly off to college. And so many more. People had been born and had died. They had lived whole lives while Peter had been sleeping. They had gone on.

Shifting in his seat. Peter halfheartedly swatted away one of the many mosquitoes swarming the group. His life was like that of the mosquito – short and unfulfilled. Unredeemable and worthless. As Peter grew quieter, the group around him became uncomfortable, looking at each other uncomfortably. Little Anko whispered to her father asking what was wrong, but she was hushed quickly. Soon only the mosquitoes spoke, buzzing around them relentlessly, reminding Peter of what he had lost; of what he could never regain.

Their silent unrequited deaths punctured the rest of the evening.

**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued…


	5. Battle Royale

**Elegy**

**Battle Royale**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

"**W**here is he?"

The polished voice drew Peter out of his doze. He had slept fitfully the entire night. His dreams had been filled with half-images and screaming faces and he kept waking from them finding a cold sheen of sweat over his body. Finally, he had decided that it might be better to stay up and had spent the entire night practicing some of his more tame activities- levitation, invisibility, mind-reading etc.

"I want to know where my son is."

Peter finally leapt out of bed, realizing who the voice was. He had just managed to twist out of his bed sheets and get to his feet when his mother strode through the door. He had been so focused on Nathan, on his brother who had so horribly betrayed him, that he had forgotten that he had other family. He had his mother.

"Mom," Peter breathed.

She was older, obviously. Peter kicked himself for thinking that she'd look exactly the same. Her hair was a slivery white, still bound regally and she stood as tall and proud as ever, only an inconspicuous cane ruining the image. Something, though, was different. Something worse than age had left its mark. It was sorrow, Peter realized. Sorrow had etched its lines and creases onto his mother's face. It had warped her appearance into a mean caricature was what it once was.

His mother opened her arms. "Come here, Peter."

Peter took two steps forward and enfolded his mother in his arms. She was fragile. Now where he had once needed protection, she did. "I -" he started, before choking.

"Now Peter," his mother said briskly, only the slightest throaty rasp to her voice, "Let's not be emotional. We have to talk."

Releasing him, his mother settled herself in an adjacent armchair. Unsettled, Peter perched on the edge of the bed. "Talk about what?" he asked.

Angela frowned unhappily. "There's been a leak. Nathan knows you're here."

Peter froze. "He- how does he -"

Angela waved off the half-formed question. "It's not important. I'm sure that if Nathan knows where you are, then Sylar knows too. You aren't ready yet. You will have to leave. I've arranged a safe house with Mohinder. You'll leave as soon as you're ready. I believe Claude will join you; apparently you still need some work on your control."

Peter pushed down a blush at his mother's faintly scolding words and asked, "I'm leaving? Already?"

"Yes, Peter," Angela said getting up, "Do try to pay attention. Get your things together. I'll try to head off Nathan. I'm sure he's on his way here." She straightened her clothes and started for the door and then turned and looked at Peter down-turned head. Sighing, she walked over to him and laid her hand on his tousled hair. "You know I love you. You know Nathan loves you. Sometimes, however, there is a choice. A choice between what one wants and what one needs to do. I have made my choices. Nathan has made his. You may rest warm at night knowing that you are like neither of us and that we have never forgiven ourselves."

Peter looked up sharply at his mother's words but she was already disappearing through the door. He looked around the sparse room he had been given to sleep in that night. There was nothing here for him. He might as well leave now. It seemed as if he'd never stop running. Running from his past, his future, from whatever was left of him. He was beginning to realize that it'd never end. He'd always be running if he didn't put a stop to it himself.

Stealthily Peter opened his window and glancing around one more time, he sent up a silent prayer to Claire, Mohinder, Monty, Simon and all the others who lived here. They were doing good work. He hoped that his being here wouldn't get them in trouble. With that, he slipped out the window and into the early morning.

It was time to make his choices too.

* * *

He was a couple states away on the outskirts of Chicago when he saw Sylar.

The man – well beast was more like it – was in the middle of one of his meals. Peter had no idea how he'd found him; he'd just thought his name and as if controlled by another had flown to his exact spot. Was this another power? And if so, who had he picked it up from? Scowling fiercely, Peter swooped down to land in front of Sylar and looked around quickly. They were on a side street and the few bystanders had fled quickly when Peter had arrived. Still there was a busy street just down the road. Peter could see cars and people walking by paying no attention to what was about to become the manmade equivalent of hell. Finally the man noticed him and looked up, his mouth red and oozing grey matter. Peter could see the half masticated face of Sylar's victim. He had been young – thirteen, perhaps, fourteen.

"Peter Petrelli," Sylar said standing. "I heard the rumors. But to deliver yourself right to me? Well, that's just too good to be true. Were those twenty years essentially dead to the world not enough for you?"

"Shut up Sylar. I'm not me who's going into the ground today." Peter said, clenching his hands.

Sylar laughed and lifting his hand, he threw Peter into a building with a flick of his hand. Peter bounced off the wall like a rag doll, but quickly rolled out of the way of another telekinetic smack, crouching on his toes and sent a stream of pure ice towards Sylar, drawing from the water from the air and freezing it mid-gust.

Sylar blocked it with his arm and heating up, shook off the melting ice. Then he shot off a spurt of lightening. Peter dodged, his eyes momentarily blinded and from his hands burst red lasers, singing Sylar's thigh. Where had that – No time! Charging, Peter shot the same beams, this time catching Sylar across the stomach.

Faintly he could hear people screaming. They must have attracted attention.

Then almost without his permission, his telekinesis threw Sylar against a pole and as he staggered up, Peter caught him to the jaw with an enforced round-house kick before he began blasting him constantly. Finally he stopped, panting slightly and ran forward to see through the dust. Sylar was kneeling on the ground moaning and Peter shuddered to a halt a few feet away from him. Had he –

No, he hadn't, Peter realized belatedly as a wave of soil burst from the concrete and enveloped him, sweeping him off his feet and crushing him to the ground. He was so completely covered that he couldn't even twitch his fingers. Sylar limped up to him, laughing and grimly, Peter realized that he didn't need his arms and legs.

He uprooted all the telephone poles around the street and threw them at Sylar who blocked them carelessly. They flew towards a couple of horrified bystanders who were watching the fight along with arriving policemen and Peter quickly reached out his mental arm and swooped the metal poles away. Desperately, Peter brought the poles back towards Sylar who was still walking forward but he stopped them midair. The two telekinesis met with a hollow gong causing more screaming. They strained against each other for a moment and then Sylar swept the poles away.

Peter fought grimly against the dirt. It was pressing against his face and it was getting more difficult to breath. He tried freezing the air, but there wasn't any water in the atmosphere around him and he didn't know how to reach further out. He grasped out with his telekinesis but was easily brushed aside by Sylar. The man was reaching out to touch his hairline where he had once made a cut so very long ago and Peter felt his vision tunneling and growing darker.

"Uncle Peter!" Suddenly, Monty swooped down and dived at Sylar.

In surprise, Sylar jerked back and snarling, reached out and threw Monty against a wall. Holding him there as he struggled for breath, Sylar walked up to him, examining the flier intently.

"Flying," he murmured to himself. Then he smirked. "I don't have that skill," he mentioned causally to Peter who was still buried. "I don't think you'll mind waiting will you, _Uncle Peter_? I promise you're next."

"No!" howled Peter and in the next instance, tracts of dirt burst up all around him cracking the cement above it with a tremendous groan. The groan reverberated throughout the city, dirt flying upwards as street upon street opened up under Peter's call. Cars overturned and people were thrown off their feet. The buildings themselves shuddered and began to crack under the strain, bits of metal and dirt falling upon the citizens of the city as if dirty rain.

Sylar began to look a little fearful.

"Stop," he ordered, "You'll bring down the entire city."

Peter pulled the dirt off him, letting it rise gently above him in a menacing wave. With a jerk of his hand, he pulled Sylar away from Monty who collapsed to the ground. Eyes glazed, Peter pulled Sylar close and gently touched his forehead.

Almost immediately, he was drawn in. Everything was hazy. He could indistinctly see Sylar limp and blank-faced in front of him and Monty struggling to his feet and shouting something. Even further off, he could hear screams and shouting.

_People are in trouble._

Peter brushed off the unimportant thought. In front of him was a small pulsating ball of light. Three-fourths of the ball was a rotting grey, bits of it gone completely. The smaller part was shining a bright white, but getting duller with every passing second. It's his soul, Peter realized.

Then Peter did the only thing left. He pulled the pieces apart.

With a violent thrust, Peter felt himself pushed back into his own body. And something else was thrown on top of him. Peter moaned as the weight crushed him and weakly pushing the body off him. Slowly the dirt dropped back to the ground and the buildings stopped shaking. He was too weak to sustain any of it anymore.

Peter looked at the body lying half on him. It was Sylar. But he looked different. Softer around the edges, maybe and a vestige of humanity around his closed eyes. Suddenly Peter heard a crazed laugh and looked up. It was another Sylar, he realized. He had split their souls. But this one no longer had the slighter smoother contours that marked him as human.

He was pure animal.

And he was coming towards Peter.

Peter hefted Sylar's alter ego up and tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground. He was too weak. He tried to shuffle backwards still holding the other Sylar's unconscious body tiredly.

Suddenly a shot rang out and Peter closed his eyes, flinching. When he opened them, Sylar was on the ground, a growing spot of red on his shirt. He was frantically trying to cover it and screamed when he failed. Peter looked around wildly for the shooter and his eyes widened when he saw who it was.

"Nathan," he breathed.

Nathan, twenty years older, was still as fit and together as ever. And he was holding a slightly steaming gun. As both brothers watched Sylar bleed away his last moments on earth, Peter wondered if the next bullet was for him.

"Peter," Nathan's voice was a rasp, "I -"

Suddenly Peter felt all the emotion he'd felt the last couple of day explode inside him and he went nuclear.

**T**o **B**e **C**oncluded…


	6. Choices

**Elegy**

**Choices**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This is my first Heroes story so if there are any questions, comments, or criticisms: please review!

**Summary:** He was put away so he wouldn't hurt anyone, but now he's the only one who can save them all. AU for Season Finale.

**I**n one blinding instance of clarity just before he went nuclear, Peter Petrelli suddenly realized why Nathan had put him away.

He wasn't human. In the instant that Peter transformed into a nuclear bomb, he wasn't Peter anymore. He just needed to be put down.

"Kill me! Kill me! Stop it!" Peter screamed to Nathan as his body began to heat up and glow, emitting bursts of radiation.

Nathan took a step forward, waving off his son's scared yell.

"Kill me!" Peter screamed again, "Use the gun!"

Nathan looked at the gun in his hands as if he had never seen one before and then dropped it and took another step forward. Behind him was the corpse of Sylar and the still body of Sylar's alter ego. Monty was right behind the the two bodies, his face creased in worry. At the end of the street were people gathered around the entrance to the alley. Unlike those farther away, they weren't panicking. They seemed to have accepted that if Peter blew up, they'd all go with him, no matter how fast they ran. They looked on in silence and Peter saw through the hazy mist that had overtaken his vision that there were soldiers and SWAT members among the fray.

"Nathan!" Peter screamed shrilly, "Stop me! Stop -"

Peter stopped screaming as Nathan's hand touched his cheek. Nathan smiled crookedly at him. "I'm not leaving you, Peter. There's another way to end this and you know it."

Peter shook his head desperately and resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. What was Nathan doing?

Noticing that Peter wasn't playing along, Nathan fed him the next line of the dialogue spoken so many years ago but still etched in both brothers' memory: "And I can't let everyone else die. You saved the cheerleader, so we could save the world." Nathan waited patiently for the next line.

Brokenly Peter whispered, "I love you, Nathan."

"I love you too."

Then Nathan drew him close and Peter waited for the jagged waft of a knife through his brain stem or maybe for a swift gunshot, but instead Nathan whispered in his ear "I made a different choice this time" and flew them both into the stratosphere.

**T**he **E**nd

**End Notes:**That's it – I'm done! Now the endings pretty open-ended, but Sylar's dead and the brother's have made up and we know from season 2 that both Peter and Nathan made it so we can infer that the same thing happens this time around. What happens next is up in the air. I'm not planning a sequel though I've left the whole heroes v. normal people thing in the air. Is there ever is a sequel it would be about that. A lot of people have seen Peter almost blow up and Nathan's decision to spare him. So maybe there's a story in there about that. Anyway, thank you all for all your wonderful reviews. See you next time around.


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